


Safe and Sound

by Magnex91



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blackmail, Branching narrative, Female Reader, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnex91/pseuds/Magnex91
Summary: You left Hope County because there was nothing left for you. When your sister goes missing, you find a reason to come home. And then the Seeds find you.





	1. Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is meant to introduce a "world" concept, in which I'll be writing (frankly) a lot of smut, but could also stand alone as its own gen-fic.

Your story was normal in Hope County, and probably everywhere else: A child who should have the world open in front of her and only had the dirt at the end of her own driveway to show for it. Even in Hope County, there were plenty of other smart kids with no money for college, and you were no exception. Your parents had apologized to you, again and again, but if you wanted to leave Hope County for school, you would need to work for it.  

And you did. Between odd jobs and scholarship applications, you scraped up enough to leave that sleepy little town and join the rest of the world outside the wheat-golden bubble of Hope County, Montana. It was not that you did not love your family. You had cried when you left, you had cried after. You had bigger things to do with your life. Over time the hurt that came from having to leave home dulled to a quiet throb before disappearing entirely. These days, you did not miss them at all. You were smart. Everyone said so. Too smart to spend the rest of your life in the middle of nowhere. 

That was part of your reasoning behind asking Alex for the promotion: You are too smart to waste away at the entry-level position you started in. Middle management or bust, goddammit. There was a position open, since Rita had retired to spend more time with her grandchildren. You had texted your friends last night, telling them that you were hoping to settle into Rita’s squishy chair. Only two friends, just Sasha and Nicole. There was no need to get all of Facebook involved quite yet. “My own office, my own desk,” you had texted. “I want my biggest problem to be buying a desk calendar.” Your phone had been chirping encouraging one-liners, memes, and emojis all morning as you sipped your coffee. If everything went well, you would have your own office by next week.  

Albany was so different from Hope County. It was historic, with brownstone buildings that got used in movies. Albany was privacy—  _sweet, sweet privacy_ — in a one-bedroom apartment that was kind of pricey and kind of small but at least it was only yours. Instead of having to share one bathroom between five people, it was yours and you could throw your dirty laundry wherever you wanted. Part of you missed the farmhouse you grew up in, with the pinewood floors that were just soft enough that they were quiet when you stepped on them, and the dusty rafters that you could stare into and see ghosts and God’s plans written in the spider webs. Occasionally, you wake up and the blanket your brother had sent you from the house would smell like home, the same sweetness of cut grass and the sour smell of your body without its deodorants and perfumes.  

On the table, your phone beats out an urgent staccato. The phone number is not an Albany number. It is a Hope County number. Mom and Dad, calling at 6 AM Mountain Time after nearly a year of silence. You have stayed quiet since Father’s Day last year. You were going to call on Christmas, but you forgot. Same with birthdays. In your defense, they had stayed quiet too, even for your birthday. 

“Hello?”  

 “Sweetie? Hi, its Mom!”  

“Hi… How are things?”  

 “Good. Great, actually. Your daddy is getting in good with the pastor and we just put a fresh coat of paint up on the barn.”  

“The pastor?” You wedge your phone between your ear and your shoulder. The previous religious policy had been “You can be a good Christian without having to go to church.” Most of the time, your family did farm work on Sundays and took advantage of the morning to sleep in. Most Sundays would find your father sprawling in his recliner, knowingly grinning and saying that the Good Lord had relegated Sunday as a day of rest. “I didn’t know you and dad were going to church now.”  

“Sure are, honey. Listen…” Here, you could almost see the nervous tongue sweep across her lips, like when she asked your daddy if that was liquor on his breath. “When are you coming home?”  

_What?_  “I don’t understand the question.”  

Some two thousand or so miles away, your mother scoffs. “You’ve been doing so good up there in New York, but we want our daughter back. We want grandbabies,” she coos. “You’re not going to be young forever, you know.”  

“Yeah, I know, but…” How to gently explain to your mother that you were probably never coming back? That Albany was your home now, with your job and friends all tucked away here? That you had no interest in children or putting new paint on the barn? That you knew they had never been abusive or harsh, but you just had no interest in coming home and settling back into the middle of nowhere when there was a life flourishing for you in New York?  

“But what?”  

“I don’t want to come back. I like it here.”  

“You’ve been there for long enough.” An edge to her voice calls back to some sort of expectation falling flat. As if there was some kind of agreement and you had made before you left, saying that you would be back after a certain amount of time or money or success.  

“I’m sorry, momma. I’ve gotta get going. I’ve got work.”  

Her tone shifts. Like a dog with its bone snatched away, she went from placid to enraged in seconds. “This conversation isn’t over, missy!” 

With your heart pounding away in your chest, you hang up the phone. You never hung up on your mother before and the anxiety burned away in your chest like acid. You half-expect her face to come roaring out of the phone, breathing smoke and venom at you. But your phone remains still and silent, with the nervous energy of a live grenade.  

* * *

Alex said he would consider your application. He had thanked you for it. And yet the consideration process was one of the furthest things from your mind.  

Over the next three days, your mother left you nine voicemails. On the third day, you play them for Sasha while you shared a drink at The Ruck, a bar in the next town over. By the time they reach Sasha’s ears, you already have each one burned into your mind, as familiar as a song.  

“Sweetie, its mommy. I wanted to talk to you about coming home. Let me know.”  

“Honey, you need to pick up this phone. Think about what you’re doing to daddy. Talk soon!”  

“I am not playing with you, young lady! Pick up!”  

“We really need you back on the farm, baby. Nick misses you. I miss you. Daddy misses you.”  

 “You have no idea what you’re doing to us!”  

Slurring, “S’all gone to shit, anyway.”  

More slurring, “Oh God, what’s going to happen?” A sob. When her voice comes back, it’s tearful “You don’t even  _care_!” 

She was angry in the next one, but not slurring. “If you don’t come home right now, I’m killing the horses!  _See if I don’t_!”  

The last message had no words. Just high pitched screaming, breathing, and the sound of something wet pelting grassy ground. Whether it was your mother or a horse, it was impossible to tell.  

Sasha’s eyes were horrifically wide as the last message played in her ear. You somberly take the phone back. “That is  _fucked up_. What are you gonna do?”  

“I don’t know. I tried calling the cops, and they just sounded… Weird. I don’t know. It is fucked up.”  

What you want to avoid telling Sasha is how the police had taken the report with the same slow, languid tones you associated with sloths. Sasha, with her criminal justice degree and her animal rights pet projects, would want to head over there. She would start cracking skulls and taking names if she thought the police were standing by, doing nothing to protect the horses.  

You had one last message on your phone, not from your parents at all, that you had not played for her.  

“Hello, my name is John Seed. I’m the attorney for the Project at Eden’s Gate. I do hate to bother you, but I’m calling reference to a loan your parents took out. Furthermore, if you have any information about where your sister might have gotten off to, we would sure appreciate it. Please give me a call back as soon as you can. Have a nice day.”  

In truth, you are unsure if the police could even do anything at this point, now that a lawyer is involved. You were never close enough to your parents to warrant hauling ass all the way back to Hope County, but you were close to Amy, your sister who looked so much like you. Amy loved old books and strolling through wheat fields and sitting up in the attic with a candle when the rain poured down on the roof of the farmhouse. Her instinct to run only extended as far as the next field over.  

Change was scary, that was easy enough to understand. You had told yourself that for a solid month before and after you left home. Things had worked out then. But between God giving your mother a wrathful, desperate tone, homebody Amy vanishing into thin air, and the police sounding horrifically placid about the whole thing, fear simmered away in your stomach.  


	2. Trees

As you get out of the rental car, nostalgia threatens to sweep your legs out from under you. This was the same sight you had seen every day after school for twelve years. Home was a two-story farmhouse, with a basement and a huge amount of land. The exact acreage is something that remains stranded in the mists of your memory. Your father told you— even told you more than once— but it does not come to mind. In practical terms, your home sits between a dirt road and a wide expanse of wheat fields that stretch out to a forest on the far side of the property. Nick used to take girls out to those woods when you were growing up. You and Amy used to play in the woods, pretending to be fairies and royalty.

The house itself looks dark and drab by comparison, but it’s the best place to check for your sister. You walk into the house, step into the kitchen, and a cloud of dust rushes up into your face. You cough and wave it away. Sunlight filters through the dust, showing the kitchen in a cluster of disarray. Used dishes clutter the table, some half-filled with water or other drinks. The coffee mug closest to you, a beige one with a chipped rim, has spores of mold blooming on the top of it. Your mother would have never let this happen; she started yelling if you left a glass of water in the sink. The house looks like it was robbed then abandoned for months, rather than days.

“Mom? Dad? Amy,” you shout. “Are you home?”

No reply.

You begin searching the home, and find most of the rooms either ransacked or abandoned. Strangely dirty for a house that had supposedly been inhabited three days ago. The furniture in the living room was dusty. Your father’s footrest was overturned in a corner. Someone had pulled the TV out of the entertainment system and left it sitting in a sea of broken glass. The porcelain figures that your mother collected were on the floor, broken in some places, both from impact and, in some places, from being stepped on. No Amy, though. You gingerly step around the mess and make your way upstairs.  


Upstairs, the mess continued in the hallway that separated everyone’s bedrooms. Your parents’ bedroom door was open, revealing deep tears in their bedspread. The family photos that lined the walls were mostly on the floor, mostly shattered. The only door that was not open was the room you shared with Amy.  


The bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the crops and providing a beautiful view of the woods, its dark trees showing a dark contrast with the bright fields. It was in a similar state as the rest of the house, with everything pulled apart and spread out on the the floor like a jigsaw puzzle. In the mess, Amy’s books were torn apart. The pages had been torn out in places and had settled around the room like piles of snow. It was another red flag in a sea of red flags. Amy was about as fastidious as your mother, and she would have never intentionally damaged her precious books like this.  


You sit down on your old bed and gaze around the room that the two of you had shared. Posters of historical monuments hid the ancient wallpaper, making the room seem hipper. More like a teenager’s room than the elderly guest-room it was. These were your posters of Rome and Manhattan, passed down to Amy after you left. She had kept them, possibly as a roadmap for her own day-dreams. She probably stared up at them when she could not sleep at night, the same way that you used to.  


Sometimes the two of you would exchange notes. Pen pals living under the same roof. You would write about boys in your class or something you saw Nick do. But rather than risk these letters falling into the hands of your parents, you would hide them for each other. Amy’s was in a box, shaped like a box, and camouflaged by all the real books on the shelf. Amy’s book box is missing from the detritus on the floor. You kneel down on the floor to check under the beds, and its not there either. It was possible that she had taken it with her as well. But your spot was still intact.  


You got back onto the bed and felt around the edge of your mattress, on the side that faced the wall. At the seam of the top and side, wedged into hiding beside the wall, there was a hole just big enough for a child’s hand to slip through. You tore the hole wider and felt around inside. You draw the items out from the mattress filler: half a Twix bar; a red lipstick you had been hiding; and a note!  


The paper looked new compared to the pitted lipstick and the withered chocolate. You opened the note. For a moment, you are sure that this must be old because its written in a child’s handwriting. Then you realize it looks scrawled because it was written in a rush.  


“My name is Amy Mills,” it reads. “My family runs Mills’ Farm, and my parents have been converted into Peggies. My brother Nick too. I’m running from the house, since the Seeds have it now. Please call my sister in New York. She needs to know.” Words leapt out at you in Amy’s shaky scrawl. “Peggies,” “Nick,” “Seeds,” and finally “Sister in New York.” You.  


Amy had to still be nearby. She would have called you if she had already reached help by now. The two of you knew the woods behind the house better than most people; she could be hiding out there. Stepping carefully around the mess, you leave the house. Compared to the frantic clutter of the house, the outside world swirls around you.  


Out of curiosity, you check the barn. It’s unlocked and you poke your head in. No horses in the barn, but a dark puddle was blooming in the middle of the barn. A chill runs up your spine at the sight of it. You close the door and turn around to leave.  


“Hi there.” A blonde woman stands behind you. She wears a white dress, despite the chill of Autumn setting into the region, and smiles at you. “Why don’t I know you?”  


Likewise, you think, as you introduce yourself.  


“I’m Faith,” she replies. Faith reaches out and lays a hand on your cheek. Her palm is cool to the touch, and surprisingly soft. “What brings you out to Hope County?”  


For one brief moment, you have completely forgotten. “I’m, uhm, I’m looking for my sister. Her name is Amy Mills. She lives here.”  


“Oh, I know Amy. She looks a lot like you, right? But younger?” You nod. Faith’s beatific smile fades into a storm of concern. “She disappeared a while back. She’s got the whole town worried sick about her. Did you come back to help find her?”  


“Right. I think she might be out in the woods. Do you know what a Peggy is?” Faith hums and shakes her head. She takes your hand and guides you away from the barn. “What are you doing?”  
Faith giggles. She swings your joined hands back and forth, as if you were on a date. “I think you should talk to my brother, Joseph.”  


“Why?”  


“He could help you search, maybe. Joseph knows a lot of things. And I think he’s talking with your parents too. You should come and talk to him. Can we take your car?”  


She asks this with the same tone a kid might use to ask for ice cream. Faith hefts a small wicker basket from her feet, into her hands. She takes your arm with her other arm, pulling herself closer to you. She has a strange perfume to her. The sunlight gleams brighter as the two of you make your way to the car. 


End file.
